Elsenborn, European federation, November 2035

  Thomas Cleverley is part of the volunteer force tasked with finding unexploded explosives with everything from dogs, metal detectors, Black hornet uavs or knifes to dig suspicious patches of dirt out.

  Elsenborn Ridge, coldest part of Belgium, and with my luck in life, that’s where me battalion got tasked to hold the line in the dead of winter. December, minus 15 degrees Celsius. Something about the atmosphere bein’ filled with all sorts of crap, I reckon.

  Elsenborn Ridge, right? The Huns tried to break through here during the Battle of the Bulge. Everyone’s heard of Bastogne, but not as many know that about 90 years ago, the Germans gave this part of the line a proper go before us and the Yanks pushed ‘em back into Germany, tailin’ ‘em the whole way. Too bad we sure as hell didn’t manage to push the crabs back.

  From the moment we got off our trucks, land rovrs, and them pre-war Cougar MRAPs, we fought tooth and nail to hold this high ground. Only time we weren’t firing was when we were diggin' or preppin’ the ammo.

  The German western part of the Rhine had fallen, the Netherlands had fallen. And it looked like the whole bloody infestation from here to Vilnius was crashin' against our trnches, barbed wire, and the other end of our barrels.

  Those new Colt C7 rifles, 1970s gasmasks and GPMGs, and everyone from some roadmen in Edinburgh to some Arab lads from South London—diggin', shootin' as if it would change anything. Despite all the firepower we carried, it was air and artillery that did most of the damage against the crabs. Felt like we were just there to pin ‘em down long enough for the artillery to do the real work. Or on us.

  “GAS ‘EM, GAS ‘EM, GAS ‘EM, FUCK!”

  Thomas yells, laughin’ like it’s some kind of joke, while I flinch.

  "What my lieutenant was shoutin’ on the radio. Despite all the shouting, the shooting, the explosions from grenades, and those crabs blasters, I could still hear him clear as day from 30 meters away.

  I just knelt down in me fighting hole, one hand on me gasmask, checkin’ the seal, makin' sure it was tight. Minus 15, but you wouldn’t know it from the ground. Snow everywhere, but it had melted away from the heat of the fightin’. We were soaked with sweat under our MOPP suits.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  The lad next to me was cussin', liftin’ the lid on his GPMG, fixin' the band that caused a stoppage. I just got back to it, aiming down the hill at somethin’ that didn’t look human enough. A crab—stupid enough to rush up the hill. Put my ironsights on it, fired one round, then another. Watched it drop. Barely had time to get back on me knees before a blaster round came whizzing through the air, missin’ me by a second.

  I got up at the same time as me cellmate and his GPMG. He started blasting away, and I did me part. Less firepower, but more accuracy. Though the crabs were smart enough to duck when you shot at ‘em. Smarter than some of our officers, if you ask me.

  Picked off targets, one by one. As much as I hated bein’ on the receiving end of mustard gas, I couldn’t bloody wait for it to land. They’d been hammering us for the better part of an hour, and we were dangerously low on munitions.

  The heavy artillery shells landed down the hill with a deafening thud, sending a shockwave through the air. But they didn’t explode—at least, not right away. Instead, they dug deep into the snow-covered earth, their impact sending up clouds of dirt and debris. Then, slowly, thick, colourless gas began to seep from the craters they left behind, swirling in the cold air like something alive, creeping around slowly, relentless hunger. Had I not have my gasmask on me I would have smelled it. Sharp and chemical, making your throat burn before you even took a breath f rom what I'v heard

  Us and the hill were surrounded by that colourless gas, thick as hell, creeping in from the craters where the artillery shells had landed. I could see it, the crabs, they were marching up the hill, then all of a sudden, they just stopped. They started wobbling, like they’d lost their bearings. At first, I thought they were ducking for cover, but then their legs went all stiff and jerky. They weren't moving like crabs anymore—more like they were trying to fight against something they couldn't see.

  I watched one drop to its knees, then another, until one by one, they just crumpled. Their blasters went silent. Their legs stopped twitching. The gas worked its magic, I suppose. Didn’t take long before the hill was littered with 'em, all of 'em lying still in that mist. No more movement. No more fightin'. Just the gas and their bodies, slowly fading into the fog like they’d never been there at all.

  Despite the hate we had for ‘em, we knew it wasn’t a good idea to stare as they gasped for air or started vomitin' their insides like liquid. You couldn’t watch it too long. Felt like watchin’ a stray dog die or somethin’. It wasn’t good for the soul. It wasn’t as bad as seein' one of your mates go down, callin' for his mum, but still—it was somethin' you had to avoid unless you had no choice.

  So, our sergeants started yellin’—

  "Stand to! Ammunition count!"

  We all looked away, pretendin’ to count how many full mags or ammo belts we had left. Like that mattered. We were all countin’ down every round we fired, feelin’ the weight of each one like it was our last, a sense of doom hangin' over us the whole time.